


Shaytham Drabble Collection

by LivaWilborg



Category: Assassin's Creed, Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Assassin's Creed: Rogue, Drabble Collection, M/M, Shaytham
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-01-16 04:20:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12335370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivaWilborg/pseuds/LivaWilborg
Summary: A collection of Shay/Haytham-drabbles I maybe wanted to use in my other stories, but which ended up as deleted or unused scenes.Some of this is downright sugar-cute. Apologies... Don't know what came over me.





	1. After-the-fact

 

“How do you hope to die?” Shay asked suddenly.

Haytham stared at him, bemused, and saw only open inquisitiveness in Shay’s face. The smile that began pulling at Haytham’s lips turned into a soft laugh. One of Shay’s hands was still stuck under him and he reached out to curl his fingers around the wrist of the other.

“You provide some extremely interesting after-the-fact distractions. Are you aware of that?” Haytham enquired.

Shay lifted his hand, and Haytham’s with it: “I am now.” he stated, grinning.

“How specific an answer are you hoping for?”

“How specific can I have it?” Shay pulled their hands behind his back, forcing them closer together in bed.

“How do _you_ hope to die?” Haytham let go of Shay’s wrist and caressed his back.

“Are you aware how often you answer questions with questions?” Shay smirked.

“Are you aware you’re starting to do the same?”

“Must be your good influence. _Sir_ …”

“Please; don’t sell yourself short.”

Shay laughed and reached out to pull the blanket up around them. “Now you’re just determined not to answer, aren’t you?”

“How I hope to die?”

Shay just nodded.

“Well…” Haytham shrugged. “I suppose… in combat. I can’t imagine any other way. I hope to die in combat. In pain.”

“In pain?” Shay asked, frowning.

“Yes, so that giving in is a release, not a battle.”

“That’s…” Shay just looked at him blankly. “Actually fairly sensible.” he finally admitted.

“Why are you even asking this?” Haytham smiled. “How do you hope to die?”

“In combat. See. That’s the thing. I’d have said that. Of course. But I think I would only do that because it’s the most likely, right?”

Haytham raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Fairly likely?” he agreed questioningly.

“But since it’s about _hoping_ , not _expecting_ , why wouldn’t we say ‘old and fat and happy’?”

“I don’t in particular want to be old and fat. I’m not even sure I want to be happy.”

“Satisfied, then. You know what I mean. If you looked it up in the Dictionary.” He grinned. “…Why wouldn’t we say that?”

“Satisfied is even worse. Satisfied people don’t have the slightest ambition in any direction.”

Shay shook his head. “You know what I _mean_.” he stated again and pushed Haytham onto his back, and rested comfortably across his chest.

Haytham’s hands went exploring up Shay’s arms, over his shoulders, down his back. “We wouldn’t say that,” he finally commented, “because if we really hoped for a peaceful death, our last moments on this earth would likely be quite disappointing. It would be a strange little trap to set for yourself, wouldn’t it?”

“Yet another question.” Shay commented with a smile in his voice and leaned in for a kiss.

 

 

 


	2. Personal Life

 

He stood by the bed looking at Shay who was sleeping peacefully, curled up on his side.

A few strands of dark hair fell across his face. There was a shadow of stubble across his jaw. The blanket had been kicked halfway off, baring Shay’s arms, his chest. There was a long, thin scar across the ribs on his side. Haytham knew from experience how warm and enjoyable a sensation it was to let his lips travel across it, to feel the muscles under the mended skin shift with each quick breath. Haytham’s fingers itched to touch and caress, to pull the blanket slowly down and run his fingertips over the scar that snaked across the hip; to feel the warm, hard muscles of his thighs.

Looking at the man in the bed, there were so many details Haytham found excessively – unreasonably – delicious.

He put the mug on the bedside table and sat down on the edge of the bed; leaned over to put a hand on either side of the sleeper. Shay stirred and Haytham leaned in to kiss his shoulder softly.

“…time izzit?” Shay mumbled, coming to.

“Around nine.”

“What!” Shay turned in the half-embrace, suddenly fully awake. “Why didn’t you wake me? We should be on our wa–“

Haytham put a hand on his chest, pushing him back in bed. “Listen.” he simply commented and nodded towards the closed shutters barring what little, bleak daylight there was, from entering. Shay lay still and did as he was told, briefly closing his eyes in the candlelight. The heavy rain, which had forced them off the road last night, was still beating the world senseless with unabated strength, drumming violently on the walls and roof like thousands of small battering rams.

“The thing is, we’re two days ahead of schedule…” Haytham commented.

“Sche– Of course you have a schedule.” Shay grinned, mostly to himself, and relaxed back against the pillows. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

“There’s _always_ a schedule. But due to how effectively we worked, there’s now a day that has no formal designation.” Haytham smiled. “So.”

“So? Did you schedule the weather to be an utter turd, Sir?”

“I doubt if I’d have much success in that department, but your confidence is _inspiring_. Here.” Haytham handed Shay the mug he’d brought and drew back to let him sit up in bed. “So: I haven’t had a day of doing nothing much at my own pace, since…” he paused to think, “Well, the day after Christmas Day, I think.”

“It’s October, Sir.” Shay sipped his coffee.

“Thank you. I’m aware.” Haytham confirmed dryly. “I’d like to spend the day here, with you. But of course, if you need to be somewhere, we can be on our way within the hour.”

“Be somewhere, Sir?” Shay took another sip and put the mug on the bedside table. He leaned forward with a thoughtful frown. “You always go out of your way to make sure not to order me. I’ll let you know if something’s in the way. You really don’t have to be so careful.”

“Perhaps. But how much would this be worth if I _had_ ordered you?” Haytham shook his head. “Besides, I can’t really make assumptions about your personal life.”

Shay gave a soft laugh. “Haytham… You’re sitting on the edge of the bed in your underbreeches. You brought me coffee. I’m naked. How much more personal can it get?”

“Are you serious?” Haytham asked, frowning in disbelief, and reached out his hands to push Shay back on the pillows and caress his stomach and sides, sliding the blanket slowly down his hips.

Shay sighed happily and pulled Haytham closer. They smiled at each other when they were pressed close, skin to skin.

Shay grinned. “You’re _really_ not encouraging me to ask smarter questions.”

 

 

 


	3. Layers of Grand-Mastery

 

Shay turned in bed, stretching out a hand for the expensive pocket watch deposited on the nightstand earlier. In the vague light from the embers in the fireplace he read the arms of the timepiece; twenty minutes, or there about, had passed since Haytham fell asleep. _Five more minutes_ , he guessed, and grinned to himself.

Getting to know a person was always like… well, an onion, in a way. Layers hiding other layers, hiding the core that could be shrivelled and dry or green and fresh. He rolled his eyes at himself. _Onions? Please…_ He almost gave an audible laugh and turned back to let his hand sneak under the blanket to rest on Haytham’s hip.

It wasn’t that he would ever have made a guess at the Grand Master’s sleeping habits before they began …fucking? Having sex? Yes, but no, that definitely didn’t quite cover it. …Before they began being naked together with regular intervals, he settled for. So, he’d have never ventured a guess at how Haytham slept, but if somehow he had been forced to, his guess would have been that the Grand Master was as calm and stoic in sleep as in his approach to work. Unruffled, unshakable.

The truth was different, though, and Shay felt oddly exultant to have been allowed close enough to discover that. About twenty five minutes after falling asleep, Haytham would start tossing and turning, almost as though he was impatient for this inactivity to end. As though he had better things to do. The turning and twisting would continue at short intervals until he woke up. And any disturbance, Shay had learned – such as the now classic Haytham-move of kneeing his bed-partner in the nutmegs so he fell out of bed, wheezing in agony – was staunchly ignored.

Shay had also long ago found out, that attempting to sneak out of bed and tiptoeing around for his basic wearables, snapped Haytham to waking, and horrendously grumpy, attention almost immediately. Whereas jumping out of bed and sounding like he firmly belonged there as he noisily rummaged around, had no effect on the man.

Then there was the odd fact that there were at least three different version of Haytham that Shay had so far identified. Nuances, all. Layers, in a way.

There was Grand Master Kenway of the Colonial Rite. Sharp, precise, thoughtful, inquisitive; _completely_ impersonal. And frankly terrifying at times. Shay couldn’t think of a situation where he would be able, or willing, to tell the Grand Master ‘no’ once he’d made a decision and given an order. The Grand Master could discuss a plan, encourage suggestions, even ask for information, but once he had a course of action ready in his mind, you did as you were ordered without question or hesitation. The Grand Master was the raw authority and nobody could claim any familiarity with him.

But then there was Haytham Kenway. Sort of the same as _Grand Master_ Kenway, but not quite. How he could tell the difference, Shay wasn’t certain, but he could, instinctively. Haytham Kenway was the man who sometimes, albeit rarely, accepted an invitation to stay for a drink, _one_ drink, after a meeting at a tavern or who sometimes went for a walk in the sun, just to look at the ships in the harbour or to read the newspaper at a coffeehouse with no other motives than that. He was more approachable, _could_ smile, although he never did that in excess, _could_ let his eyes rest on a pretty girl, _could_ discuss a mundane subject he found fascinating and consider, even enjoy, a counterargument to his own. It was still abundantly clear from the way Haytham Kenway held himself, that although he could be pleasant and polite company, and occasionally give up hints of personal information in a conversation, overt indications of familiarity would not be tolerated.

And then there was _Haytham_. The man who now turned in bed, leaving Shay without a share of the blanket. Shay laughed, looked at the watch and confirmed the ‘twenty five minutes’ theory. Then he pulled the blanket out of Haytham’s grasp and snaked an arm under his head so he could pull him close and minimise the tossing and turning. He’d once had an extra blanket ready at the foot of the bed, but had just ended up losing them both.

Haytham was the man who only emerged when they were alone. Even though the shared nakedness had been Shay’s key to finding this version of the Grand Master, it wasn’t about sex, not anymore. Haytham was the man who obviously took great pains to make sure _not_ to give an order, not to force Shay into anything, not even a meeting where they could be together. He always _asked_ and never took the intimacy for granted.

In the beginning, the discovery of the pleasure their bodies could provide had overshadowed almost everything, but as they grew closer – Was that a true description? Yes, Shay concluded. It was. – as they grew closer, Haytham turned out to be infinitely more giving and attentive than Shay felt he had any right to expect. Haytham somehow managed to ask questions without asking, and to pull every lurking darkness to the forefront, to be examined, dissected, made less unbearable in his own categorical way.

Shay would give his life for the Order at a moment’s notice. That was never in question. But the primary reason for his loyalty was now trying to turn over in bed and finally settled for curling up when his attempt was frustrated by the embrace.  Shay smiled and rested against Haytham’s back, caressed his chest slowly and let peaceful, happy sleep sneak up on him.

 

 

 


	4. Chair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you're playing AC Rogue and go to Fort Arsenal, there are posters on one facade of the house, apparently advertisments. Rather strange, since they aren't in view of the populace and also... vandalism (I guess LOL).  
> Anyway, in Shay's shoes, I'd be really annoyed at people gluing posters to my house.  
> So now he got his chance to act on that annoyance.  
> Also, this was a reaction to a discussion with my friend about what Shay does in his spare time...

“Is your master in?”

“Yes, Mr. Kenway.” The servant, clearly on his way home, nodded. “He long ago gave orders you was always welcome, Sir. I think the master’s in the back garden. Do you want me to show-”

“I know the way. Thank you.” Haytham gave the elderly caretaker a polite nod and made his way around the house, coming to a stop in the shadow of Fort Arsenal’s walls.

Haytham had recently learned that the Assassins had taken to calling Shay ‘the Templar attack-dog’. Personally, he wasn’t dissatisfied with the term.

The attack-dog was currently sitting under a tree in the garden, shaded from the sharp afternoon sun, a large, ginger cat sprawled across his thighs. He was reading a small book. The legs of his pants were rolled up to his knees, feet bare in the grass, vest unbuttoned, his hair hung loose. Shay was a casually delicious mess, except for his left arm which was bandaged in a prim splint and sling.

Haytham frowned, hoping the injury was solely attributable to… Shay being himself, not some situation he should have been aware of.

Shay put the book down, scratched the cat behind a torn and battle-scarred ear, took a sip from a clay bottle next to him and picked up the book again.

Haytham approached the pair.

Shay looked up from his book. “Sir.” he said, surprised, and made to get up from the grass, ignoring the cat, and earning a pawful of claws to the thigh.

Haytham signalled him to stay. “May I?” He gestured at the grass.

“Of course, Sir.”

Haytham shrugged off his jacket, removed his hat and sat down in the tree’s shadow, opposite to Shay. The cat gave him a sour, yellow-eyed glance before turning its attention to licking a paw with a greasy purr.

“Hope you’re not here to make me climb something, Sir.” Shay commented nodding at the bandaged arm.

“Happily not. Master Gist told me you were fitting the _Morrigan_ to leave for Boston in the next few days and, as it happens, I could use a lift. Though perhaps you won’t be sailing?” He nodded at the bandaged arm.

A sudden burst of laughter came from Shay’s lips, but he quickly controlled himself. “Perhaps I’ll wait a few more days, but I’m taking the _Morrigan_ out, no question. I have some cargo needs hauling. This is just…” he looked down at the arm for a while, laughter obviously building and barely suppressed. “Just an inconvenience, Sir.”

Haytham regarded him, bemused. It was refreshing seeing actual mirth in Shay’s eyes. “What happened?” he asked, observing Shay closely. If the thin dam holding the barely controlled laughter back could be broken down, it was surely an experience he wanted. “…Dramatic, no doubt.”

“You could say that a chair-” Shay’s laugh suddenly broke free in a sputter and he burst out laughing. He obviously tried containing the mirth, unsuccessfully, and finally hid his face in the crook of his good arm as he laughed, dropping the book onto the cat who fled with an angry hiss.

Haytham felt a questioning grin tug at his lips but waited patiently for Shay’s laughter to ebb out, enjoying the unfamiliar sight.

“Random… civilian…” Shay gasped, “hit me… with a chair. I didn’t realise… how funny that was… until now.”

“Why? Chair?” Haytham grinned.

“…Hair oil.” Shay gasped and leaned back against the tree, still laughing.

Haytham gave up getting a sensible explanation until further notice and just gave in, laughing at the absurdity.

When the laugh finally quieted down, Haytham was privately itching to reach out, run a hand up Shay’s leg, pull him close, taste a hot, smiling kiss. There was something intensely living about him, as though the laughter had washed away a shadow Haytham had never even known was there.

Shay grinned, wiping his eyes in his shirt sleeve. “Sorry, Sir.” he commented, thoroughly unapologetic.

“Chair?” Haytham enquired smilingly.

“Well, I… After I came back from Pennsylvania two days ago, someone had glued a good handful of posters to the wall.”

“Posters?”

“Yes. Fairly cheeky, considering… Not even within view of the street so passers-by could see them. On that side of the wall.” He waved his good hand at the façade facing the docks. “Advertising some sort of hair-oil of all things. So I took note of the address on the poster and went to do my complaining.”

“I see…?” Haytham commented questioningly.

“Salesman at the store convinced me it was the printer who did it. Hired people to hang the posters. So he claimed he was innocent and gave me some of the damned hair oil whatever-it-is, as an apology.”

Briefly imagining Shay in a mood to complain, a thundercloud of threat on the poor storekeeper’s horizon, made Haytham smile. “I imagine he was eager to send you off.”

Shay just grinned in confirmation. “So, I went to the printer's and told of my grievance, and the fellow who hangs the posters came in while I was discussing this with the printer. He…” Shay started laughing again, “I swear, he hardly took a look at me before he swung a damned back-less chair at my face in panic. …I was just lucky I parried it.” He gestured vaguely with the bandaged arm, and winced a bit.

“Did he escape?”

“No, Sir. It gets better!” Shay stated.

“How so?”

“He ran right into the arms of two redcoats and they kindly stopped him for me. I swear…” He shook his head. “I’ll never get used to this; being on this side of the law. They even called me ‘Sir’ and ‘citizen’, all polite-ish and asked if I needed a doctor.” Shay grinned broadly. “…It’s the strangest part of not living my life under a hood anymore.” he mused.

Haytham didn’t bother wiping the smug smile off his face.

“…Alright.” Shay amended when their eyes met. “Second strangest part of life on this side of things.”

“And the strangest? …Just for clarification purposes.”

“If you came closer, I’d show you.” Shay smirked.

Haytham took a deep breath, enjoying the surge of lust that swept through him. “Please don’t believe I’m anything but tempted.” he said and cast a glance out beyond the walls of Fort Arsenal where tall-ships were coming and going in the busy harbour … and where a lookout in the mast might chance to spot them. If he moved closer things would boil over in a matter of seconds. He knew from experience that a kiss or a touch was never enough.

“It’s evening soon. You’re welcome to stay for supper. The caretaker will go home in a moment if he hasn’t already.” Shay said breezily. “If you have time, that is.”

“Normally I’d say I didn’t wish to impose, but in this case, imposing seems a sensible course of action.”

Their eyes met. There was warmth, smile, in Shay’s gaze. And a touch of something mischievous which promised surprises and exhilaration to come. It hadn’t been part of Haytham’s plans for the evening, but conversely hadn’t _not_ been part of his plans. If Shay could make his own luck there was no reason not to be caught in its wake.

Haytham got up and questioningly extended a hand to pull Shay to his feet. Shay handed him the book he’d been reading and then accepted the help. They stood close together for a few seconds, and Haytham quietly enjoyed the experience of a lover at eye-height, the sense of strange equality it gave.

Shay finally grinned and they let go of each other’s hands and made their way to the house through the sunlit garden. Haytham glanced at the book he still held. _Experiments and Observations on Electricity_ by Mr. Benjamin Franklin.

Shay cast him a sidelong glance. “It was a ‘gift’ from the printer. He practically piled books on me hoping this’d be the last he’d hear of the incident.”

“You know the author of this one, I believe?”

“And hope I will never have to rekindle that acquaintanceship. Brings back a host of unwanted memories.”

Haytham gestured with the book as they stepped into the house. “Then why read this?”

Shay gave a laugh. “Just curious to see if I’d understand it. Happily, I didn’t to any appreciable extend. …Maybe I’m slow.” He closed the door to the garden and bolted it.

Haytham threw his coat, hat and the book on a chair next to the door and nodded at Shay’s bandaged arm. “You will be slow with that.”

Shay reached out and pulled Haytham close by the collar of his vest before turning him and pressing him with his back to the door.

“Mhm… I will be slow.” he promised, and brushed his lips softly against Haytham’s.

 

 

 

 


	5. Artwork for chapter 4 by Glacier_Llane!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Glacier_Llane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glacier_Llane/pseuds/Glacier_Llane) drew this for chapter 4 and I totally love it!!  
>  LOL, the panic in the corner is priceless and actually seeing Shay smile... Delicious!
> 
> You can see the original post on Glacier_Llane's tumblr here:  
> https://geral-lenix.tumblr.com/post/169103002012/quick-drawing-of-shay-from-chapter-4-of-shaytham 
> 
> You are amazing, Glacier_Llane, thank you so much for drawing this! Best new year's surprise ever! =D


	6. Dogs...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to [Glacier_Llane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glacier_Llane/pseuds/Glacier_Llane) for the inspiration! =D

Shay quickly flipped the dead man over on the floor of the small balcony, and checked the pockets of the corpse’s coat. Some coin, which he tossed into the street below for someone to find tomorrow, a leather pouch… too small to be the letter.

He swore softly under his breath, pocketed the pouch and briefly considered bringing the dead man’s rifle, but dismissed the idea. It was bad enough that he had to ignore the slash of an Assassin’s knife from earlier, carrying extra weight wouldn’t be worth it. He hauled himself quickly onto the rooftop and ran along the rain-slick tiles in the dark. He was late as it was, the Grand Master was still out of sight in the dark streets below him and-

A gunshot rang out. Close by. In the next alleyway across from him.

He quickened his pace, jumped, nearly slipped but caught himself, using his momentum to twist and slide down to land on a small overhang above a window. The wood was old, and he had to keep going before it crumbled under his feet. But as he jumped farther down, he spotted a figure below, just a shadow in the dark, running through the sordid alley and rounding a corner: Haytham, judging from the way the figure moved - strong, fast, graceful, decisive - and he seemed unharmed. Good. Finally, he was back on track after the near disastrous delay twenty minutes earlier.

He had just gotten halfway to the ground, swallowed up by the darkness between the run-down houses, when a large dog ran past in the alley below. Rounding a corner farther down the street came a group of running men, carrying lanterns and drawn blades. Five, Shay counted as they passed him, oblivious to his presence above them. As quickly as he could in the rain-soaked night, Shay got to the rooftops and overtook them. They obviously knew the streets well, but higher ground made navigating easier.

He followed the dog who followed the Grand Master, only slightly hampered by the rain; the pursuers hardly more than a few seconds behind him.

Suddenly, he saw movement below in one of the alleys that were even narrower than most. Haytham was looking up and Shay caught a slight nod of his head. Then the Grand Master quietly drew his blade and a pistol and stood his ground, waiting for the pursuers.

It would be close to madness, Shay thought, for one man to take on five ruffians and a dog in combat, but in the narrow alley Haytham had at least ensured that they couldn’t surround him. …Whether this had really been his chosen course of action even before he knew he had backup, Shay promised himself to ask afterwards.

 

o-0-o

 

The shot lit up the scene in front of him for a brief second as the corpse of the second dog he’d had to shoot tonight, tongue lolling out of its sharp-toothed maw, slid to a halt at his feet. “Stay!” Haytham commented, tossed the spent pistol aside and regarded the pursuers. “Dogs… _Generally_ more trouble than they’re worth, I find.”

“I don’t take advice from dead men. Give back what you stole, _cochon_!” the man in front demanded in a heavy accent.

“That was uncalled for.” Haytham remarked, furtively watching the silent shadow approach behind the pursuers. The man at the back of the group was soundlessly disposed of and lowered gently to the ground with quiet, elegant ease. Haytham didn’t bother hiding his smile. “And I’m rather certain it’s not stealing when you take something back from a thief.”

The look of loathing on the leader’s flat face was intense when he swished his long blade in the air. “Brave last words!”

The attack was as Haytham expected. The man was large, strong, brutish in his approach, faster than he looked and probably used to opponents being afraid and surprised. It took just a few attacks and parries to find his weakness, and a kick to his knee to bring him out of balance, exposing his left side. As Haytham felt his blade bite the man’s torso and graze the spine he realised it would probably have been comical to watch two combatants dance around a dead dog in an alleyway. The blade exited out the leader’s back and Haytham had to twist the corpse with his entire weight not to get pinned.

A boot to the corpse’s chest, a kick as he pulled the blade free.

The next attacker was hit with his leader’s body and a quick slash across his face stopped him in his tracks.

The third man had turned around in time to see his compatriot behind him fall to Shay’s blade and in the light from the lanterns on the ground he looked panicked from Shay to Haytham. Then he threw his sword to the ground: “I give up! I’m sorry.”

Haytham sighed.

“Please, don’t hurt me. I didn’t want to help them. They threatened my family. I didn’t have a cho-”

Shay, closer to the man, grabbed him effortlessly and slammed him chest first against the wall, cutting off further declarations of innocence.

“Do we need something from this one, Sir?” he asked, glancing at Haytham.

“Not immediately, no…” Haytham wiped his blade with his handkerchief. “But, conversely, should he have some wisdom to impart on Mr. Daniels’ whereabouts…”

“Mr. Daniels?” the prisoner croaked, “Yes. The clockmaker? He is holed up with the gang at the headquarters in Conelly Street.”

Haytham sheathed his weapon. “And where is Conelly Street?”

“Just west of here, where the footpath turns onto a broader street. Please, let me go. I don’t want to die.”

“How does one go about getting into the headquarters? Describe the building, please.”

“It’s not a building, it’s below it. In the cellars. You get there through the basement of number 44-” The prisoner stopped himself, dread in his eyes, knowing he had just played his cards wrong and his usefulness was spent. His horror only lasted a second, though, and he was dead before he hit the ground.

Shay held out the hand with the blade, letting the rain clean it. “…I assume you meant for that to happen, Sir?” he asked.

Haytham nodded reassuringly in reply. “Thank you. Very timely assistance.”

There was a hint of relief in Shay’s eyes when he nodded.

“You’re a better attack-dog than this poor fellow.” He nudged the dead dog with his boot.

“Thank you. …Possibly?” Shay said.

Haytham gave a little laugh. “Kindly check for the letter on those gentlemen, if you would.” He gestured to those Shay had killed and they both began rifling through pockets with only the sound of the spattering rain surrounding them.

“I take it you are not aware what the Assassins are calling you now?” Haytham asked.

“Sir? That’s a no.”

“’The Templar attack-dog’. Quite apt, really. Sometimes even ‘Kenway’s dog’, a term I’m personally rather fond of.”

Shay gave a laugh. “I imagine you are; just to shine my own halo.”

“Got anything?”

“Nothing, Sir.”

“Me neither. A slight setback.” Haytham picked up the pistol he had thrown aside earlier.

“What happens now?”

Haytham pulled out his pocket watch, checking the time in the shaky light of the lanterns the ruffians had dropped. “It’s a quarter past three. The city will be waking up in a few hours. I’d like to get this over with before we have to worry about civilians being in the way.”

Shay nodded. A few strands of hair had worked their way out of his ponytail and were clinging to his face in the rain. Haytham walked closer and pushed a lock behind his ear, registering a split-second of surprise in his brown eyes.

“This wouldn’t happen if someone could train you to wear a hat.” he commented, trying to keep a smile in check.

“Train me, Sir?” Shay grinned. “I think there’s a saying about old dogs and new tricks.”

“I don’t know if it’s true, the saying…” They began walking and made their way towards Conelly Street. “You do take to new situations with a lot of flair.”

“Maybe I can work my way towards a hat by way of new situations, then.”

Haytham smiled to himself, a plethora of inappropriate suggestions painting themselves in his mind. “I’ll be happy to assist. I’m certain I can think of something you haven’t tried.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
